


Oubliette

by 30xf



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 17:06:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5833615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/30xf/pseuds/30xf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Just a vain attempt at explaining the inconsistency in Scully's apartment number, and the apparent change of floor she lives on. All apartment numbers referenced are found in the series at some point. See also 'The Walk' in this series.</p></blockquote>





	Oubliette

There is a grunt from under the covers as I shift in bed to reach the ringing phone. Queequeg adjusts himself against my leg before I even settle back in and grunts again when my leg ends up on top of his lower half. He doesn't bother to move this time.

"Hello?" my voice croaks quietly as I reach for the bedside lamp. I turn it on and squint at the clock. Two forty-seven. I know it's Mulder on the other end of the line before he even speaks.

"You realize your building makes no sense, right?" Mulder asks by way of a greeting. He sounds both alert and tired. If I didn't know him better, I'd assume he was drunk, calling at this hour.

My brain is still half-asleep and takes his remark at face-value. "It's an old building, but it's fairly well built." It comes out a little more defensively than I had intended, but I'm unaccustomed to people calling me in the middle of the night making vague criticisms of my home.

"Sorry to call at this hour, I couldn't sleep," he says. Before I can respond, he continues, "The numbers don't follow any logical order. You were in number 403 when you were on the first floor, and that right there is ridiculous."

"They follow an order on each floor." Queequeg crawls up the bed, poking his head out to see why I'm awake when we should both be sleeping. I soothe him by scratching his ears until he falls back to sleep.

"But they don't even do that. You are now in number 35, which makes sense because you're on the third floor now. But you're directly above you're old apartment, so shouldn't you now be in 33? And why was there a 35 on the back door of your old apartment?"

There is so much to think about in his statement that doesn't make sense, that I can't even respond for a minute. He's not wrong about any of it. And I had never thought much about any of the inconsistencies before. Nor have I ever talked with my neighbours about it. We've all just sort of accepted it as an eccentricity of the building, I suppose. "The back doors on the first floor are numbered independently of the front doors because they face different streets," I explain. It still makes no sense, but that was what I had been told when I moved here.

Mulder is silent for a moment, and I can hear movement on his end of the line. I hear the fridge open and the uncapping of a beer. I'm suddenly a little thirsty. "But how can two different apartments in the same building have the same number? How can you move and still have the same address? And why does your front door only have a 5 on it? And is your back door still number 35, or is it some other random number?"

I sigh and force my eyes open wider, trying to wake myself up enough to think about his questions. "There isn't a number on my back door now, actually," I inform him, proud of myself for coming up with answers at this hour of the night.

"Okay, so what about everything else?" he asks, and I can hear the creak of his leather sofa as he settles in.

"The three fell off the door a long time ago, and never got replaced. Now everybody just knows it's actually number 35. And there's one less apartment on the first floor because the landlord's office is down there, so that explains the inconsistencies between the four and the five. And there were minor repairs done that necessitated renumbering the apartments recently. Does that answer all your questions?" I'm actually impressed my brain made all these connections without me ever consciously thinking about it before. I should try working half-awake some time.

"But how does anyone know where people live? And what about the mail man? Or anyone delivering packages?" He honestly sounds a little exasperated.

"Except for the people in my old apartment, everyone in this building has been here as long, or longer than me, so we all just know where everyone lives. And the mail man just knows what box number corresponds to what name. He couldn't care less where we're located in the building. And any packages are left with the landlord. Anything else?"

He sighs heavily, "It just bugs me."

"With the way your brain works, I would have thought you'd appreciate the chaos of it all."

"If you're looking at it that way, why the hell doesn't it bother you then?"

It's a good question, but I don't think about it too much. "It's just the way it is. And in the grand scheme of things, it's not that important. So I guess I just don't care." I get out of bed and head to the kitchen for a drink of water. After a yawn and a stretch, Queequeg follows, his tiny nails clicking on the hardwood floor behind me. "Is the numbering of my apartment building the reason you couldn't sleep?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

There is silence for nearly a full minute before Mulder says, "I'm sorry I went off on you a little at the police station the other day. After you mentioned my sister."

His apology catches me off guard, just as his slight outburst had. I stand at the living room window looking out over the empty street in silence for a moment. "I shouldn't have brought her up. I know you were just trying to help Lucy and Amy."

"Was I though?" I hear the clink of his beer bottle as he sets it down, and I imagine he's most likely hunched over on his couch, the weight of this last case resting heavily on his shoulders.

"Of course you were," I answer, though I suspect it was a rhetorical question. "I'm sorry I proposed the connection. I know your motives go beyond finding your sister." Despite my apology, I still think Mulder was likely driven in some way on this case by thoughts of his sister. Whether he realized it or not.

There is the creak of leather again, and I assume he's lying down now. "Maybe the connection was there," he says quietly.

I move to my own couch, lying down and waiting while Queequeg builds up the momentum to jump up with me. He walks over me, his small body feeling impossibly heavy as one paw manages, as always, to step right on my boob. I hold in a gasp to avoid having to explain it to Mulder, and let the dog give a couple gentle kisses to my cheek. I've never been a huge fan of dog kisses, but as long as he stays away from my mouth, I usually allow it once in a while. Satisfied he's shown me an appropriate amount of affection, he settles in on my stomach and closes his eyes. I pet his head as I wait for Mulder to continue with his thoughts.

"If you think about it, Amy is about the same age as Samantha was when she was abducted. And Lucy was about the age Sam would be now," he muses.

"Yeah, I suppose you're right," I allow, though I had already noticed that.

"So it's entirely possible I connected them in my head subconsciously." He's rationalizing to try and understand why he's taking Lucy's death so hard. For a psychological profiler, he is impossibly good at disguising his own feelings to himself. All while wearing his heart on his sleeve. 

"And there's nothing wrong with that," I decide to tell him, just in case he didn't know. "With the similarities in age, it was impossible for you not to have that happen, really. And even if you managed to avoid the connection in your head, your heart would have recognized it as well. When someone's had such an impact on our lives--especially someone we loved--it's hard not to have them influence our judgement and decisions later on in life. It's like a way of reminding ourselves that they aren't forgotten." The irony is not lost on me that I sounded much like my sister with that explanation. I swallow hard to get rid of the lump in my throat. 

After a moment, Mulder chuckles softly. "You're pretty good at this, Scully. Have you ever considered switching to psychiatry?"

I'm too tired to laugh, but I smile into the phone. "No, but if you want to start paying me a hundred dollars an hour for these phone calls, I won't stop you."

He gives a genuine, but soft laugh. "Can I pay you in installments? Starting with buying you lunch tomorrow?"

I sigh, still smiling. "I guess that'll have to do."

"Thanks, Scully."

"You're welcome, Mulder." At that, Queequeg gives a low growl that ends in a bark directed at the phone. "Queequeg says hello," I quip.

"I don't know what that thing just said, but it was most definitely not hello," he assures me.

"He's just not used to these middle of the night phone calls yet," I reason.

"Well, you better put it back to bed. See you in the morning, Scully."

"Good night, Mulder." As I hang up the phone I notice Queequeg's ears had perked up at Mulder's name. "You really don't like him, do you?" I muse aloud, rubbing both sides of the dog's face until he relaxes. "Well, he doesn't like you either. And you're both just gonna have to get over it."

I sit up, Queequeg slipping from my stomach to sit between my knees. Curious now as to whether he was reacting to Mulder's name, or something in my tone of voice I frown and look him in the eye. "Mulder," I whisper, keeping my tone steady. The dog practically springs straight up, landing on the floor beside the couch and dancing around excitedly at me. He lets out one sharp bark and a soft growl. "Okay, just checking." I get up and head back to bed, Queequeg's tiny feet trotting along behind me.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a vain attempt at explaining the inconsistency in Scully's apartment number, and the apparent change of floor she lives on. All apartment numbers referenced are found in the series at some point. See also 'The Walk' in this series.


End file.
